


Moments

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [16]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Winter Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: A few interrupted moments at the Winter Palace, and one uninterrupted one.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	Moments

Before they enter the Winter Palace, while Josephine is fussing with the last-minute arrangements, he steps up beside Cassandra. He’ll never get tired of the way her face brightens when she sees him.

“You’re not going to enjoy this at all, are you?” he asks, soft enough that he’s reasonably certain no one will overhear him.

She makes a grumbling noise at him, smile turning to a scowl. “I should think that was obvious. You will?”

“Battling with courtly intrigue is a new challenge. And you know I like a challenge. Besides, think of the dancing!”

“Ugh. What is your point, Brennan?”

He smiles at her. “Well, I suppose this is like a joust, for you, isn’t it? A tourney. Not a battle, no real stakes, though I’m certain at some point you’ll find something to hit with your sword…”

“You are not making any sense,” she interrupts.

“Right. Sorry. But… if it _were_ a tourney, and you were my champion, I could offer you a favour.”

Now that he says it out loud, it sounds ridiculous, and he half-expects her to laugh at him, but she just gives him a confused, wary smile.

He slips the ribbon out of his pocket, and reaches for her hand.

“I asked for an offcut when they were fitting my new enchanter coat,” he explains, as she lets him push her cuff up a little and loop the fabric around her wrist. “Royale sea silk, the same as the trim on your armour. So you’ll have a part of me with you, even when you have to deal with the Orlesian demons alone.”

He has to keep his eyes firmly on his work. Unfortunately, he hadn’t thought to practice this bit, and his hands are just slightly shaking. It makes the bow harder to tie. Eventually though, he straightens her sleeve, covering the ribbon, and looks up.

She is watching him with a most… unexpected expression. A little amused, perhaps, but, heartened, heated. He lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles, and she draws him in, kissing him properly.

“Thank you,” she says, when they break apart. She lingers, though, forehead pressed against his, sharing breath. “You… thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he whispers.

“Places, everyone!” Josephine calls.

The moment passes.

*

“Enjoying yourself?” Leliana asks, emerging from the shadows as he enters the vestibule.

“I don’t think you’ll ever make a competent spy out of me, but… yes, actually. Found a ring for a damsel in distress, explored the courtyard a little, haven’t managed to embarrass myself yet… I have a few whispers for you already, would you like them?”

She shakes her head. “Keep them for now. I will have a look later. For now, I suggest you go _upstairs_.”

He glances up, seeing Varric, Cullen and Cassandra clustered at on the landing. After Josephine’s little lecture, he is hyperaware of the disgruntled looks on all their faces. Before he can thank Leliana though, she vanishes into the shadows.

The whispers of the Orlesian guests have been swirling around him since the moment they stepped foot through the gates. As he ascends the stairs, they seem to get louder and more… pointed.

“Lady Nightingale makes me nervous…”

“Can you believe the Inquisition filled its ranks with apostates?”

“What is Lady Pentaghast _wearing_?”

It’s too much to hope that the lady in question hasn’t heard the comment, and understandably, her expression turns even flintier at the sound of it. He nods politely at Varric and Cullen, and then slides past them, leaning against the bannister beside Cassandra.

“Ignore them,” he says softly.

“This dress uniform is preposterous,” she responds, turning to him. “Formal armour would have been better.”

“I did try and convince Josephine out of the uniforms. She overruled me. Something about presenting a ‘united front’. Personally, I agree with you.”

“It hasn’t even started yet, and already, I wish to kill everyone in this room.”

A few heads turn towards them, and he reaches out, slipping his hand into hers.

“I know you’re saying that for effect, my love, but perhaps you could try _not_ antagonising them? Just for a couple of hours?”

The heads stay turned, and he realises what he’s just said.

_Void_.

Dropping his voice to no more than a whisper, he leans a little closer to her. “I didn’t… mean to say that. Sorry.”

She smiles with only slightly veiled warmth at him anyway. “If it means I can stop pretending not to be irritated when they comment on how… _well-formed_ you are, I do not mind.”

He hasn’t heard that one yet.

“They’re saying what?”

Before she can respond, one of Leliana’s agents steps up beside them.

“Inquisitor, they are ready for you.”

“Back to work,” Cassandra says, giving his hand one last squeeze before she releases him.

The moment passes.

*

“Sometimes, I forget you’re a _princess_ ,” he says, conversationally, drawing up beside her at the top of the stairs, where she had retreated after the introductions.

She makes a light noise of disgust. “That is because I am not.”

“You _are_ royalty, though.”

“The king is my fourteenth cousin, nine times removed, just as the herald said. Half of Cumberland could tell a similar story. There are _charts_ to explain how we are all related.”

He grins. “If I weren’t the Inquisitor, you’d outrank me.”

She raises an eyebrow. “If you weren’t the Inquisitor, I would outrank you anyway. As a Seeker, and as the former Right Hand of the Divine.”

“Touché,” he says, unable to help the way his grin spreads even wider.

She scowls. “Please, no more Orlesian.”

He holds up his hands in teasing surrender. “As you wish, my lady. Have you witnessed anything noteworthy?”

“Nothing yet,” she says. “You?” 

“Vivienne said I haven’t embarrassed myself as much as she feared. She even said ‘well done’. I think that’s the most complimentary she’s ever been about me.”

“Have you witnessed anything _noteworthy_?” she echoes, but there is a fond look on her face.

Her hands are on the bannister, and he lets his fingers brush against the wrist that he knows bears his ribbon, the pale fabric peeking slightly from her sleeve.

“Care to join me for a turn around the garden?”

As if on cue, a pair of twittering Orlesian ladies cross behind them, giggling, and Cassandra’s expression sours.

He gives her a sympathetic smile. “No matter. I’ll come and let you know when there’s something you can hit with your sword. I promise.”

She nods sharply, and he steps away towards the guest wing.

The moment passes.

*

Just after he slips back into the vestibule, fresh from inspecting the Grand Library (and finding some _very_ interesting titbits of information), the bell rings.

The first bell.

“Shouldn’t you go in?” Cassandra asks, as he sidles up beside her.

He shakes his head. “Not until the second bell. Leliana was _very_ clear on that point. Enter at the first bell, you look too eager, too needy. Enter at the second bell, and you are fashionably late. Makes a _much_ better impression.”

“Why can nothing be simple here?”

“The Nevarran court was more straightforward?”

She snorts. “I was too young and insignificant to attend when I lived with my uncle. Then I became a Seeker, and the Right Hand, and I attended many different courts, all with their own idiosyncrasies. But please give me a sword and a sparring ring any day.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to _dance_ , Lady Cassandra?”

He had assumed it was an obvious sequitur, but she seems a little confused.

“Now? This is… hardly the time. We’re here to find a killer, not… dance.”

“Perhaps later?”

She seems so stiff and uncomfortable here. He knew she was not looking forward to the ball, that she wasn’t going to enjoy it, but he hadn’t imagined it would be _this_ terrible for her.

“I heard some whispers about missing elves in the servants’ quarters,” he says, stepping close in an attempt to disguise the information as simple sweet nothings. “When I come back, we’ll go exploring. Be ready.”

She gives him a smile tinged with gratitude, and the second bell rings.

“Wish me luck,” he says, pressing a swift kiss against her cheek.

The moment passes.

*

From the very second that they enter the servants’ quarters, and one of Leliana’s agents slips them their armour and weapons, she seems to relax, and he couldn’t be more pleased. He sends Varric and Vivienne off to search the kitchen and bedrooms, and directs his and Cassandra’s attention toward the garden.

The very beautiful, very private, garden.

After they have established that there is no one else in sight or earshot, and the only item of any note (another of the curious halla statues) has been picked up, he takes her hand in his and slips into a small, shaded area.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

“I have not yet hit anyone with my sword,” she retorts, but there is a playful, joyous tone to it that he hasn’t heard since before they reached the palace.

“Well, I can’t help you with that, yet,” he says. “But I can think of something else I’ve been dying to do all evening…”

She steps back a couple of paces, concealing them a little more in the vines that cloak the walls around them, drawing him with her.

“Whatever could that be?” she teases, a laugh in her voice as she gently guides his face to hers.

He almost sighs with relief as their lips meet. Interesting as the Game is, and as much of an adrenaline rush it is to be the subject of so much intrigue and excitement, he can’t deny that he is already a little tired of the constant second-guessing. He wouldn’t mind getting to raise his staff against a few demons or venatori. But this… this will do instead.

She tilts her head, deepening their kiss, and he wishes (somewhat ironically) that they were both wearing their uniforms instead of the armour. It would be a damn sight easier to hold her the way he wants to without her breastplate and pauldrons digging into him.

Even so, though…

He lifts his hand from her armoured waist to her bare jaw, breaking away from her lips to trail kisses and nibbles as far down her neck as her armour will allow. She moans his name quietly, hand tangling in the hair at the back of his head…

“Uh, boss?” Varric’s voice drags him back to awareness.

He manages to pull himself away from Cassandra’s neck, noting absently, with a strange mixture of guilt and pride, that he’s somehow managed to leave a rather distinctive bruise on her throat that he isn’t _entirely_ certain her uniform will cover.

… she might kill him.

(It might be worth it.)

“Inquisitor?” Vivienne’s voice is markedly more worrying, just at present. Her tone suggests that her earlier praise of him has now been entirely retracted.

They emerge just in time to see a harlequin stab a fleeing servant.

The moment passes. 

*

Briala leaps from the balcony, and he turns back to his companions.

“More politics and double-dealing,” Cassandra grumbles, pointedly wiping her sword clean of venatori blood on a nearby tapestry. “Is there anyone here who is not corrupt?”

“It’s the Game, my dear,” Vivienne explains, smiling. “Everyone plays it here.”

“You aren’t seriously thinking of allying with that elf, are you?”

Varric hides a grin behind his hand. “Come on, Iron Lady, let’s re-join the party. We can see if there’s any juicy gossip we missed on the way up.”

Though he thinks she would probably prefer to stay, to hear his thoughts on the eventual side he, and by extension the Inquisition, will take on the matter, she nods, and they depart back through the royal quarters.

He turns to Cassandra.

“I know you want me to pick Gaspard.”

“The empire would be better off without Celene. Or Briala. Gaspard is the leader Orlais needs in this crisis. He would see the true threat, not spend his time throwing balls and writing letters.”

“Perhaps.”

“You don’t agree?”

“I see merits and issues with all three candidates. It’s hard to say who would be the most worthy ruler between them.”

Her expression softens, and she reaches over to press her gauntleted hand against his cheek. “You are such an idealist, my love.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“On the contrary, it is refreshing,” she assures him. “I just hope your ideals do not blind you to the reality of the situation.”

He rests his hand over hers on his cheek for a few heartbeats before she pulls it away.

“We should return to the ball. They will wonder where you have gone. Josephine will not be pleased.”

He nods, holding her gaze until she pulls that away too.

The moment passes.

*

He sees her watching, face like thunder, when he finishes his dance with Duchess Florianne. As he ascends the stairs nearest, he can see her knuckles white against the bannister.

“Jealous, my love?” he whispers as he draws close, his hand closing over hers. “This is new.”

She looks away from him, and his heart sinks as he realises that he hit the mark.

Void, he didn’t _mean_ to make her jealous.

It was just work. Just _politics_. The duchess had made the request and it would have been the height of bad manners to refuse. Not to mention that Leliana would likely have gutted him in his sleep for missing an opportunity to gain some more intel on the main players of the Game.

He moves his hand, slipping it into hers instead and carefully, slowly, lifting it to his lips, giving her every opportunity to pull away. She doesn’t, only turning to look at him when he kisses her knuckles and then runs his thumb across her fingers.

“They are watching,” she murmurs, barely above her breath.

“ _Let them_ ,” he murmurs back, and although he knows it’s going to get him a serious lecture later from, at the very least, Leliana, if not Josephine and Vivienne as well, he slides his hand along hers to lightly grasp her wrist, feeling the bow still beneath her sleeve. Then he adds softly, “they should know I’m _yours_.”

The look in her eyes at that is pure fire, and if they hadn’t been in the middle of the blasted ballroom, he would have had very serious reconsiderations about his whole ‘taking this slowly’ idea. But they are, and so he simply replaces her hand on the bannister. The less physical contact they have, the less likely he is to cause a scandal.

“Inquisitor?” Leliana’s voice cuts through him like a knife. He turns, and finds all three of his advisors behind him, none of them looking particularly pleased.

He glances back, and Cassandra has vanished into the crowd.

Lucky her.

The moment passes.  


*

As soon as the elf runs off, Cassandra’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“Varric, go and investigate where that corridor leads. Vivienne, go with him and make sure he does not disgrace himself.”

She doesn’t often give commands anymore, unless they are in the thick of battle, and both his other companions look to him for confirmation before they move. He gives a nod, and they disappear down the corridor.

Before he can make another sound, his back slams into the wall, air bursting from his lungs, as Cassandra shoves him against it. Her mouth seals across his, hungry, her body pinning him in place.

He succumbs to her attack, happy, one hand going to her hair, the other attempting to reach her back, but, foiled by her shield, settling on her waist instead.

It probably lasts only a handful of seconds, though it feels like a lifetime. She pulls back first, a perplexed and almost guilty expression on her face.

“I did not mean to do that,” she confesses quietly.

“Not objecting,” he assures her. “The palace getting your blood up?”

A blush darkens her cheeks slightly. “You kicked the harlequin out the window. It was… appealing.”

He gives her a fond smile, pressing his forehead against hers for a breath.

“Now you know how _I_ feel every time _you_ kick down a wall.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He steals a kiss. “Very… appealing. I remember, once, in the cave below Crestwood? You broke it down before I even had a chance to ask you, and I almost… Well, I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Oh?”

“Temptress,” he whispers.

She laughs softly, pulling back from him and brushing his hair back into place with an absent-minded gesture.

“Later,” she promises. “We should… catch up to the others.”

He makes a vaguely affirmative noise, not really wanting to, but knowing he has to. The mission, the assassination, the fate of the Orlesian Empire… There will be time enough, later.

She steps towards the corridor.

The moment passes.

*

Morrigan leaves, but he takes an extra few moments on the balcony. The peace and quiet, the fresh air. After everything that has happened tonight, he needs it.

Well… there is _one_ thing he needs more.

As if he has summoned her with mere thought, he hears familiar footsteps behind him.

“I can’t believe you escaped before me. A fat count insisted on talking about soup for fifteen minutes. We can return to Skyhold whenever you like. The sooner the better.” She leans on the rail of the balcony beside him. “Is something wrong?”

He wonders whether to lie to her, to tell her that everything is fine, but she’ll see right through him, just as she always does.

“I’m just worn out. Tonight has been… very long.”

“It was a lot of foolishness. But we did strike a blow against Corypheus. We will need to put the soldiers at Skyhold on alert. Better to be safe.”

He knows she’s right, but…

“Wait. There _is_ one thing we must do before we go.”

She straightens. “Oh?”

He steps back from the rail, bowing as she turns toward him.

“May I have this dance, Lady Cassandra?”

She sighs, though there is a fondness to it. “A dance. After all we’ve been through tonight?”

“Can you think of a better way to celebrate?”

Smiling, she takes his outstretched hand, allowing him to pull her into a dance hold. Closer and less formal than any of the dancing he has seen or taken part in tonight. Her hand held tight in his, his arm around her waist, holding her firmly against him. He can’t believe it’s taken this long for them to dance together. Like this, at least. Music spills quietly from the ballroom, light and fussy the way all Orlesian music seems to be.

“I suppose this isn’t _terrible_ ,” she teases him.

He spins her under his arm, entirely out of time with the melody, and she lets out an unexpected but delighted giggle, before he pulls her in close again. She never fails to amaze him.

“When we get home, we’re going to dance properly,” he tells her, resting his forehead against hers as they continue to dance. “To Maryden’s music in the Herald’s Rest, and to our own in the sparring ring. Or… perhaps, to our own in my quarters?”

He pulls back a little to see the look in her eye, to judge whether or not she has gleaned the true meaning behind his words. Tonight has given him… motivation.

She only raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I _love_ you, Cassandra.”

“I love you too.”

“I never want you to… to doubt how I feel about you. How _much_ I feel. Whatever happens to us, to the Inquisition… Cassandra, I look at you, and I see the rest of my life.”

Her brow furrows, just the slightest bit, and her hand tightens in his.

“Is this… Are you… Are you asking…”

Maker, he is getting this all entirely wrong, isn’t he?

“I’m not asking you to marry me. Not… not yet. Certainly not _here_.”

The look in her eyes is a maelstrom of relief and disappointment, and if they weren’t so close together, he would kick himself. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it, because he has, many times, late at night when he can’t sleep. Before she even hinted that she might return his feelings, he often found himself picturing his life after Corypheus, in a cottage somewhere. Overlooking the sea, perhaps. She was always there. Chopping wood or sitting in front of the fire with him. Now he looks at her and pictures her with a wreath of flowers in her hair, letting him promise to love her for the rest of his days…

“Brennan?”

He shakes himself. They’ve stopped dancing. When did they stop? Was it his fault?

She silences his thoughts with a kiss. Brief and sweet.

Blinking, he casts his eye to the balcony door. Curtains have been swept across it from the inside, but he can see the silhouette of… guards?

“I was tired of being interrupted,” Cassandra says, answering his unspoken question.

Now that he looks again, the figures are clearly Cullen and Leliana, and… he twists his neck a little further, there’s Varric too. He feels a slight swell of happiness in his stomach, that they would do this for her, for him.

“We did keep getting interrupted, didn’t we? The next ball we go to, I’m going to keep you by my side all night. If… if you would like that.”

“No more balls.”

“I don’t think we’ll have a choice. Josephine is very keen on us throwing one at Skyhold.”

“Ugh, can we be unexpectedly absent if she does?”

“We can try? Where were you thinking? Rift-closing? Dragon-slaying?”

“Dancing to our own music?”

He can’t help kissing her for that. Soft and thorough, the way he has kept wanting to since he tied his favour around her wrist.

It feels like days, weeks since then. So much intrigue and politics and fighting since. Not as fun as he had been imagining. And with a great deal less genealogy testing than Josephine’s lessons had implied. But… the day was saved, and, as she had said, they did deal a blow against Corypheus. Another detail of the dark future that still haunts his dreams, that did not manage to come to pass.

She breaks away to breathe, and he trails kisses down her neck, stopping when he brushes against that mark, that, no, the collar of her uniform did not adequately conceal.

“You… you did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Her voice shakes as she suppresses a moan. “Claiming me in every way you can?”

He presses one final, open-mouthed kiss to the mark, and then pulls back so he can see her face.

“Not… on purpose, no. But…”

She smiles. “I find I do not mind being claimed, if it is by you.”

It’s as close to an answer to his accidental not-a-proposal as he is going to get.

He turns his attention to her wrist, where, despite multiple changes from uniform to armour and back again, his ribbon still sits.

“Is this…”

She smiles again. “It helped. To know you were close, to know you thought of me. Thank you.”

“I’m glad. Should we relieve our guards?” he asks. “Let’s go home.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “Let’s go _home_.”


End file.
